


Aiming Higher

by RussianWitch



Category: Bastille Day (2016)
Genre: Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 16:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6914257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Generally Mike is better at not getting caught looking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aiming Higher

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd

Before getting his hands on the address, Mike half suspected Briar just got put away in a closet somewhere when not blowing up half a random city while saving it. Then he broke in, not sure why but needing to see where Sean Briar laid his head at night. The fridge is a disgrace, Mike is forced to remedy which evolves in to an afternoon of cooking passive-aggressively. He doesn't even know what the hell he's doing there, except that he doesn't really have any place else to go.

Of course he almost gets shot when Briar gets home, Mike suspects that the only reason he doesn't die right there are the amazing smells coming from the kitchen. Briar grumbles and growls, but doesn't bother to physically throw Mike out, so he figures they are good. The agency or whatever needs him anyway to mop up the rest of the rogue French intelligence. They have to wait for things to calm down before springing the trap and things get—cozy. He doesn't realize how cozy until one evening he's sitting on the couch watching Briar exercise, and, well—"What're you looking at?" The tall man snaps, and for the first time in decades Mike feels a blush setting his skin on fire.

Like hell he's going to admit to Briar that the sweating, the grunting and the gleaming muscle are doing something for him. Not usually his thing, and a bad idea all around, but Mike is starting to suspect Stockholm Syndrome because Briar glaring at him is turning him on. "Nothing." The raised eyebrow tells him that Briar doesn't believe him, not that he believes anything that comes out of Mike's mouth. "Wondering what to make for dinner."

"You wouldn't be lying to me?"  Briar rolls off the weight bench, the same single minded glint in his eyes that drove Mike to flee across rooftops. He crouches on the couch without conscious thought, hands clutching the back in case he has to vault it to escape Briar's crazies—he stops between Mike's knees sweats riding low, slick with sweat and pumped.

Looking up at Briar, Mike feels his mouth go dry. "I'm not." He mumbles, getting distracted by the way Briar casually scratches his side while still somehow remaining intimidating. "Mike!" He steps closer, and Mike swallows down a moan, except that Briar somehow hears him, and _grins._ "That how it is, huh?" Fingers damp with sweat trace Mike's cheekbone down towards the corner of his mouth. They catch on Mike's bottom lip, and he doesn't remember opening his mouth, or how he ends up sucking the salt off Briar's fingers. There is just the awareness that something has changed and blunt fingers pushing deeper into his mouth, deep enough to cause some discomfort and make Mike fight to keep from drooling like some animal.

Mike tries to pull away, but the fingers follow pushing deeper and stroking his tongue, Briar tastes slightly salty and metallic. He watches Mike like a hawk following along no matter how Mike moves, until he finally gives up moaning around the digits in surrender. "Good boy." The agent smirks, and that really shouldn't be getting Mike hard enough to hurt—nope he isn't into that at all! "Want something bigger to suck on?" Briar offers and he's moaning his agreement before his brain has processed the question properly. The fingers slip from Mike's mouth, nails scratching across his tongue. He squirms, shuffling forward until he's at the very edge of the couch in anticipation of what's going to replace them. "Mike!" Briar snaps, and only then does he realize that an actual verbal agreement is required.

All Mike can focus on is the string holding Briar's sweats up, needing it to snap, break, be untied already. "Yeah! Yeah, just—fuck! Give it to me already!" He bites out, hoping like hell he won't be killed for the presumption, tearing Briar's sweats down. "Fuuuuck—" He moans as Briar's dick slaps wetly against his abdomen, thick and veiny the purple head glistening. "Gimme!" Mike demands leaning in fully intending to choke himself on the hottest dick he's seen for a while, only to be held back by a forceful hand his hair. "Ask nice." Briar tells him with a vicious grin.

"Fuck you! Now _please_ fuck my throat!" He orders, jerking forward ignoring the pain of getting his hair practically yanked out. Sticking out his tongue as far as he can, Mike can barely reach the hot flesh curving against Briar's abdomen, tracing a prominent vein with the tip. "Yeah, you do want it, don't you?" Briar murmurs, but Mike is no longer listening. He claws at Briar's hips, fighting the grip that's keeping him away from his prize until the standing man relents and Mike can mouth his way up to wrap his lips around the head with a hungry moan. "Want to get your throat fucked." Briar sounds almost awed, wraping a hand around the base of his dick, pushing himself down Mike's throat slowly. He grunts happily lashing the underside of the dick filling his mouth with his tongue, his gut twists in anticipation of the thick flesh robbing him of breath.

Mike wonders if Briar is going to choke him, I'd love to pull off and ask—but the hand in his hair keeps pushing him forward and Briar just _tastes too damn good._ His jaw is starting to hurt, drool dribbling from the corners of his mouth making a mess of him. "Good cocksucker." Briar growls, nudging himself deeper just past the edge of Mike's throat making him gag. Tears spring from his eyes as he struggles not to fight against the pressure. "Take it all, boy—," Briar encourages him, petting Mike's hair and rubbing the back of his head. "Show me how much you want it!" He moans and shudders when Mike's hands slip on his skin and he has to dig his nails in, scratching Briar's ass. "Yeah—" Mike would smile at the sound, if his mouth wasn't occupied at the way the secret agent's voice breaks for him.

His own dick throbs trapped in his jean, protesting its confinement, but Mike can't spare a hand to free himself. Whining he wiggles in place and Briar chuckles, far too quick on the uptake for Mike's taste. "Something you need?" He asks, smearing Mike's drool out over his cheek. His hips snap forward, and for an eternity all Mike knows are the black spots behind his eyelids and the thick flesh plugging his throat. "Get yourself out!" Briar orders, finally giving him air.

Mike isn't sure he can manage to do as he's told, his hands are cramping clutching Briar's ass. Somehow he manages to drag one hand down to his crotch; it takes all of his skills to get the buttons undone as Briar keeps fucking his throat. He slurps greedily reveling in the bitter taste of pre-come coating his tongue and heavy balls bouncing against his chin. Finally managing to wrap his hand around his dick is almost irrelevant.

"That's a pretty dick, baby." The secret agent groans, "Play with yourself for me." What else can Mike do but to obey? His curses are muffled by Briar's dick, drowned out by his dirty laugh. "I want to see you come with my dick in your mouth." He pats Mike's cheek and goes deep again, matching the rhythm of Mike's hand. Breathing, Mike decides, is overrated. He swallows and grunts, jerks himself faster and is rewarded by Briar's hips stutter and sucks harder, adding a twist to his strokes eager to follow the order.

Things get confusing with the lack of air and flood of sensation, Mike barely manages to look up—Briar's eyes burn down on him. "That's it, baby." The agent groans and Mike's mouth is flooded. He jerks himself hard, swallowing greedily around the half hard dick as he shoots all over himself. That should be the end of it, yet somehow they end up in a heap on the couch with Mike in Briar's lap.

"So, what's for dinner?" The crazy bastard asks, and Mike doesn't bother to sensor the urge to drive his knuckles into Briar— _Sean's_ ribs.     


End file.
